Tag: Drabble

Dinosaurs

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The ankylosaurus strapped on his helmet and hopped on his bike. His tail swung from side to side, balancing him. He was about to become a fossil, though he had no idea that the asteroid would strike that afternoon. No one did. They were all worried about T-Rex. Terrified, in fact. Fear, uncertainty and doubt ruled.

Before Rex, it was something else. And something else. Something else to distract them. They reacted. They dodged to the left, to the right. They ducked and wove. Eventually, distractions took their toll.

Ankylosaurus felt himself wobble. He steered hard to the center. 

Tiny Hands

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The others dinosaurs laughed behind his back but not to his jaw dominated face. It was the jaw they avoided when T-Rex came after them. His hands were small, arms too short to reach, but he had a knack for swinging his head in a death arc while his mouth spewed rot. Avoid the rot, avoid the hands, run like hell. It’s a Hobbesian world.

It doesn’t help to run. Nor will a strongman, a dinosaur like T-Rex, solve the problem. Given the chance, dear Hobbes, a dictator will make life “nasty, brutish, and short,” for the rest of us.

A Moment, A Feeling

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There’s a moment when I think about a lonely alone in the future 
because life throws these things at you,
especially at our age.

Would that be okay?
Could I make it work?

No.  I would end up down infinite rabbit holes, an eternity of recursions, chasing Red Queens and Cheshire Cats, my own tail.
Not making sense.

Your presence anchors me in this time, this here and now present.
I depend on the steady chronology of your day-in, day-out goodness,
depend on the moments we intersect at intervals
to talk, to eat, to share a thought.

You ground me.

A Change of Spring

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Not windy as we thought it would be.
Light breeze spins a metal orb;
shelf fungus grows in a tree knot.

Spring, the first of many buds,
of many mushrooms, honey colored. They make the most of rain.
Draw it into gills that spore. The dogs sniff around, giddy.

Soon enough another front will come. We’ll hunker inside.
Soon enough a fierce February like last 
February when soil sogged and trees uprooted.

We live by the weather, uncertain what else might give way,
grateful the sun shines, for now.
Then watch the world move fast past points of no return.

Wishing Spring

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Until spring comes, Persephone will fill the Styx with tears of longing for her mother.
Caught in the prison of Hades’s grasping power, she mourns.
Caught in the devil of the season, we wish it done.

We cry for hope.
Hope that the dark sky opens. That sunlight shines on puddles and nourishes green shoots of grass. 
Grass like flying carpets.
Take us from this dark country, soar high on a hope and a prayer.

A hope that Persephone and Demeter will be united
in love of Mother Earth. Their garden will bloom again. 
A prayer for spring. For redemption.

Wishing on a Glass Slipper

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Cindy earned while her stepsisters played. Her stepmother said retail work builds character. And isolation. Cindy was the only one in the shoe store when a Ren Fair guy came in and asked for glass slippers.

“Like in fairy tale land? No. Never seen anything like that.”

“They carry you away. Wherever you want to go.”

“But I don’t think we have them.”

“Worth checking. Wish come true.”

Cindy found one pair, her size, on a dusty shelf. From thin air it appeared.

“You mean these?”

“Try them,” he said.

They were hard, slippery, “I can’t walk.”

“Wish,” he said.

Ratatouille

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“Watch for the dog. I’ll shred the persimmon.” It was essential that tonight’s sitting go well. The food critic, Ratatouille, whose biopic took the world by storm, would be dropping by to review the restaurant. Their swanky Peninsula location near home gardens filled with fresh produce was ideal. The rats hoped for a five star rating.

When the dog stopped patrolling at 9, it would be safe to open. Gaston checked the sky for Orion. Waiters set out piles of persimmon, pine nuts, and dried passion fruit in the garden shed.

Someone shrieked. Ratatouille? A satisfied cat turned the corner.

If Hans Christian Anderson Were Writing Now

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Atticus Finch had never represented a bird. “So, let’s get this. You want to sue your adoptive parents.” 

“I had a terrible childhood. Bullied, teased. They called me Ugly Duckling.” The swan had tears in his eyes.

Maybe they were real, maybe it was just good acting. Horatio Swan was a highly popular leading cob. His beak was a fixture on Netflix and HBO.

Atticus leaned back in his chair. “Why now? You’ve said publicly your tough childhood led to the success you enjoy.”

Horatio trumpeted, “I’ve learned things in rehab. The price I paid. My inner cygnet is traumatized.”

Peace and War

Photo by Monica McHenney
The poppy leaf is stiff and white with frost.
Delicate feathers of foliage contrast against
brown mounds of spent high grass.
When the sun comes out, the poppies thaw.
Dew beads on a multicolored expanse of meadow.
Rough and soft textures interweave;
edges spill at random, blend in harmony.

Tetchy plants prefer to dominate, isolate.
Eucalyptus comes to mind.
Allelopathic, eucalyptus inhibits growth in adjacent plants.
Shreds of fallen leaves smother the ground. 
The sameness of the eucalyptus forest,
its homogeneity like a vast suburban tract or a war zone.
Chemical warfare, a kind of balance, a kind of aggression.